Fear. It sticks to me still.
Every time I leave my door
And see them – hooded figures who holler and jeer,
I rush past, hunched and hidden, hoping to keep safe,
Knowing maybe this time they won’t shout, but grab,
Grab, beat, punch and scratch,
Or worse, grab, hold, press and caress,
To take what was not freely given,
Just to mock that I am unwilling,
That I am at all.
And I run by, it is not my time,
Some other poor bastard is first in the line,
And I pity them, and feel ashamed
Of my sigh of relief it’s not me.
After the same incident as inspired yesterday’s poem. I hope you find some merit in it.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic